Equitable Nights

5 Jun

Last night, The Squire and I attended the annual Equitable Trust reunion. We met at the bank when I pulled a file cabinet over on myself and he rode in on his white horse and rescued me. The bank itself was bought out in 1989, but the former employees have gotten together once a year ever since.

Lots of funny stories, some of which we had heard before, and a doleful reading of those who won’t be coming to any more meetings, but a good time was had by all, in spite of the annual damper these deaths put on the festivities.

The Squire, bless him, printed up the name tags and dropped them into a folder without giving them to the Head Proof Reader. As a result, a lot of long last names got chopped off, so if your name was, say, Burkheimer, all that showed was Burk.  He’s cute, and I love him…

One fellow mentioned a trip he had been on, driving from Aberdeen to Baltimore to meet with some Big Wigs, when they were it from behind – hard – by a car driven by a Catholic priest. Somebody called the police, and a burly Irish cop arrived. He took one look at the situation, and then leaned into the window of the cleric’s car. “Begorra, Father, how did it happen that these fellows backed into you so hard?”

A man with whom The Squire worked for many, many years always makes us count our blessings. He and his wife had one daughter who is perfectly healthy, but then had two children who have some sort of muscular problems that put them into wheelchairs before they were in their teens. Just recently, his wife had a stroke which has left her also paralyzed.  They have been able to get aides for the two kids, but he is totally responsible for his wife. The aides had voluntarily lent a hand with the wife on several occasions, but somehow the nursing service found out about this – he did not ask for their assistance, they helped out of the goodness of their hearts – and are now suing him for “stealing” services.

And yet, he is always cheerful, laughing at the craziness which surrounds his life. But, looking at him we wonder if he’s not on the way to a stroke of his own – or worse.

 

 

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